


Schoolboy Blues

by Delphi



Series: Snape of St. Brutal's [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Class Issues, Drama, Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, Reform School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape knows every shortcut at St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys, including a few of his own devising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Schoolboy Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 round of Kink Bingo. Kink: Class Fantasies

As a sixth year veteran of St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys, Severus Snape was an expert on shortcuts. St. Brutus's—or St. Brutal's, as the boys of the senior school called it—was housed in a Highland castle, which consisted of a seemingly infinite number of twisting corridors and draughty staircases hung together with crumbling brick. Over the years, large portions of the building had been boarded up for the sake of security and the heating bill, and what remained was an archipelago of classrooms and dormitories interspersed with dead ends and locked doors.

Some of the shortcuts were well-known. There was the unused cloakroom on the ground floor that ran straight through from the central corridor to the west, and there was the third-floor stairway that looked as if it should only lead to the barred entrance to the junior school, but which had an extra door off the landing that opened onto the music room. The dining hall saw nearly as much traffic in between class bells as it did at mealtimes, and you could always spot fresh meat by the way they would arrive in the Science lab by the main door instead of by the courtyard.

Other shortcuts were more subtle. For example, on this particular spring Sunday, just after Chapel, Severus was making his way down the corridor with a bucket in hand. The bucket contained a rag and a spray bottle and had been liberated from the downstairs supply cupboard, to which Severus had been granted access owing to his status as a prefect and a building monitor.

He was careful not to walk too briskly or too slowly, but rather with the slightly reluctant gait of a student on an errand. So it was that he proved entirely invisible to Professor Binns and Professor Flitwick, who were speaking together outside the English room, and though Professor McGonagall looked up when he passed her office, he was not delayed with any inconvenient questions.

Building monitor had not been Severus's first choice of assignments. He'd had his heart set on being the library monitor, but due to his interrupted fifth year, the job had gone instead to Lupin, whom Severus suspected was only going to piss on all of the books the next time he went off his medication. There were some advantages to his current role, however. For instance, he knew when and where the teachers patrolled, and he knew from the caretaker's diary when surprise inspections were planned, and he happened to know that the corridors were cleaned on Mondays.

He halted just past the French room and reached behind the painting of a seascape to retrieve his cigarettes. A left, a right, and a flight of stairs brought him to a deserted alcove, where he removed his lighter from his shoe and lit a fag. He turned the bucket upside down and stood on it, brought up to the level of the high, narrow windows. He manoeuvred his fingers between the iron bars to open the latch, and he blew the smoke outside so that the smell wouldn't linger.

Three storeys below, he could see Mr. Filch, the senior school caretaker, working on the van. It was parked outside the carriage house with the bonnet up, and even though the afternoon was cool enough for Severus's breath to steam in the air alongside the smoke, Filch had his coat off and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Severus watched him for a while, the way he might watch an ant carrying a leaf.

Filch wasn't all that much to look at, objectively speaking, but in a place where an enterprising student could sell baking chocolate and jelly powder pinched from the pantry for nearly as much as cigarettes, standards were inevitably relaxed. He was middle-aged and ordinary-looking, with a face made for scowling, and his shoulders were wide and his arms well-muscled and he had an enormous prick.

There wasn't any telly at St. Brutal's. Severus had learned to make his own entertainment.

He gazed down at Filch's broad back and inhaled the smoke slowly as he traced the cold iron with his fingertips. The headmaster was in favour of removing the bars, or so Filch had said, disapprovingly. Professor Dumbledore had also been behind installing the new trophy case, which was made of real glass, and of allowing steak knives in the dining room, even if they were counted after every meal. He wanted to change the name of the centre too—or at least the "Incurably Criminal" part.

'Thinks because he's a doctor he can do what he pleases,' Filch was fond of grumbling. Severus had attempted to explain to him that Professor Dumbledore had a doctorate in Psychology, which was not the same thing as being a doctor, but it didn't seem to have made an impression.

Severus was personally in favour of amending the name if it was going to be divulged on his university applications. After all, he himself was already cured, and he had a copy of Professor McGonagall's letter to prove it.

He had been eleven years old the first time he was sent to St. Brutal's, after the business with the deadly nightshade and his father's whisky. To his surprise, he had found he quite liked reformatory life. The classes were far better than those on offer at Cokeworth Primary School, not to mention the revelation the library had presented. The food was plentiful, and the rules were clear, and people rarely pretended to be any nicer than they were.

With good behaviour and consideration for the failure of his murder attempt, he had been released after four years. He knew the difference between right and wrong, Professor McGonagall’s letter said. He was capable of exercising self-restraint and making constructive life choices. 

Of course, he had found his way back within six months, but that was entirely a matter of practicality, not recidivism. As he had said, an education at St. Brutal’s was far more rigorous than any offered in Cokeworth, and there was the school prize to boot—a bursary for each year’s top student accepted to post-secondary study. Planning for the future was an integral part of making constructive life choices.

Filch finally spotted him, shading his eyes as he frowned up at the window. Severus blew out a long plume of smoke. His stomach tightened. He held Filch's gaze for a long moment until he won and Filch looked away in defeat. The bonnet of the van slammed shut. Severus climbed down and sat, stretching his legs out in front of him.

He didn't have to wait very long. It was a hard habit to break, tensing at the sound of footsteps, but he crossed his ankles and leaned back against the wall as if he hadn't heard a thing. His eyes were half-shut, and he took a long drag from his cigarette as Filch rounded the corner.

Sometimes he worried that Filch was going to have a heart attack one of these days. His face was presently very red, and his grey eyes were very wide, and he looked as if he had seen a ghost. Severus rather liked that; a ghost was a different sort of monster entirely. That said, if Filch dropped dead, there would probably be an investigation. They would look through Filch's rooms, where Severus was certain he had lost a sock. There would be questions. It could prove awkward.

"Good morning, Mr. Filch," Severus said piously. He took another drag.

Filch's gaze narrowed. He stomped forward and plucked the fag from between Severus's lips.

"I could write you up for this," he said crossly. He stubbed the fag out against the wall, only a few inches from Severus's ear. "That's five stripes off your backside the next time the magistrate's in."

Severus didn't flinch; he had practice. He rolled his eyes and then made a certain tight-mouthed expression that he understood communicated moderate remorse.

"Sorry," he said. He wasn't, but he would be even less sorry in three weeks when Magistrate McLaird came for his monthly visit, so the point was moot. Besides, while he wasn't afraid of a birching, he did not need the demerits on his record.

It worked. Filch tucked the fag behind his ear and frowned down at him. "It's not good for you," he muttered.

Severus was tempted to ask him if he thought it would stunt his growth, but he held his tongue. He had the impression that "seventeen" was not the appeal for Mr. Filch the way it was for Professor Slughorn, or even—in his strange, chaste way—for the headmaster. Being reminded of Severus’s age seemed to make Filch more twitchy than anything.

"I was bored," Severus said honestly enough. "I needed something to keep my mouth busy."

He looked at Filch's zip and licked his lips.

Filch's face went even redder. His hands clenched. He took half a step back and looked away. "Ought to be studying if you're bored. Is that history essay of yours done?"

"I handed it in yesterday," Severus said. It was never wise to leave finished work lying around, even with a semi-private bedroom.

"You've got time for cleaning, then," Filch said, although he sounded neither convincing nor convinced. 

Here was another shortcut: the one that ran through Filch's rooms, and the dark and empty metalwork shop, and maybe today, the nearest supply cupboard.

"After," Severus said. Not that he had any intention of spending his Sunday with a scrub brush.

He stood up in the scant space between Filch and the wall and leaned back invitingly. His index finger slipped in between two of Filch's shirt buttons. Filch moved in at the smallest tug, as if Severus could drag him around with one finger. He was warm and heavy as he pressed Severus against the wall.

It didn't take much for Severus to get hard, and he had half a stiffy with just a little wiggling against Filch's solid frame. He liked the way that Filch smelled—like somebody else's father. Like old-fashioned aftershave in the morning, and like lager when he came back from the pub on his night off, and at the moment like motor oil and the outdoors.

"Please?" Severus asked, as though Filch would be doing him a personal favour by letting him suck his prick.

"Shh." Filch glanced about nervously.

Severus waited out the moment of indecision. It never lasted long, not since the first time.

"In here," Filch finally said, his grip finding Severus's elbow as he led him to the cupboard.

Even this door had a lock, for all that no one but Severus wanted to pinch paper. It was ridiculous, really. If you were going to stab someone with a pencil, you could just as well use your own. Filch shut the door near-silently behind them and then turned the bolt. Severus braced himself against the shelves and loosened his tie.

Filch's hands found his waist in the dark. His lips fumbled over Severus's cheek before landing on his mouth. Kissing was hard to come by at St. Brutal's. Handjobs and blowjobs were commonly traded among the boys, and even buggery if you could find a secluded spot and pay someone off to stand watch. Kissing was for fairies, however, and no one wanted to be a fairy at St. Brutal's. You were put under Special Supervision if you were a fairy, and if you didn't watch yourself, you would get sent off to Grimmauld Children's Home with the hustlers and the perverts.

Severus parted his lips gladly. He rather liked kissing, and the logic of it somehow being poofier than cocksucking seemed spurious. It was hard and urgent, like being eaten alive, and the thrust of Filch's tongue against his own was accompanied by a thorough feeling-up. His jumper was rucked up and his shirt and vest tugged loose from his trousers. He squirmed in pleasure as Filch's callused palms stroked over his stomach and back and sides.

His own caresses were more precise. His right hand slid up Filch's thigh and over his stomach while the left inched down and closed around the key ring hanging from Filch's belt. He held the keys in a tight grasp to keep them from jingling and rubbed Filch's prick through his trousers to divert his attention. Filch’s prick was substantial even when soft, and Severus traced the full length of the impressive endowment as he pinched the clasp on the key ring and eased it free.

"Christ," Filch whispered, shoving his hand down the back of Severus's pants. "You'll be the death of me."

Severus allowed a moment’s groping and then dropped to his knees, keys in hand. Air and shadows stirred as Filch unzipped his flies and got his prick out—hastily, like he thought Severus might change his mind.

As it happened, Severus actually liked this part. Sucking off a grown man was more entertaining than fooling around with boys his age. Filch's prick wasn't up and squirting and done in thirty seconds. Not only did it provide a bigger mouthful, but it took its time—could last while Severus came at least twice—so really, it kept Severus out of worse trouble by distracting him with lesser sins when the boredom set in.

He rubbed his cheek along the warm length and licked it slowly, feeling it rise under his tongue. His fingertips traced the shape of the keys. Small. Rounded top. Equally spaced teeth. He worked the pantry key off the ring.

Filch's breathing covered the sound of metal sliding along metal. His hands were all over, here and there, tugging at Severus's collar, fitting around his neck, playing with his hair. It felt good. This too was different from fooling around with his fellow students. It made the twisted wire in his spine unwind a little. It made his eyelids heavy and his prick strain at his zip.

He started sucking in earnest. The stretch of his jaw was curiously satisfying, and so was the fullness at the back of his mouth. He eased the clip back onto Filch's belt. The pantry key went into his own pocket, and then he got a hand into his trousers, pulling at himself as his arousal sharpened. Filch's prick was jutting straight out now, heavy and hot and wet all over with Severus's spit. 

There was a sound.

Severus froze, and so did Filch. The tap of footsteps on the stairs was barely audible, but it was the shape of the sound as much as the volume that alerted them. Filch's hand tightened abruptly around his shoulder. Severus held still, his mouth full. If he were stupid, he might have been tempted to tease—to rub his tongue and hollow his cheeks to make Filch squirm. He had no desire, however, to be discovered on his knees with the caretaker's prick halfway down his throat. 

He swallowed very carefully when the urge to dribble threatened. Filch twitched. The footsteps continued on their way up to the fourth floor without pausing. 

Filch breathed out slowly, and Severus waited a second longer to make entirely certain before carrying on. Distantly, he was aware that his heart was beating slightly faster. Common sense said that he should look out for himself and finish up while he could. His fingers curled tighter around his prick, stroking quickly as he bobbed his head. The taste, the weight on his tongue, the rhythm and the squeeze at the back of his neck—that and ten good passes of his hand were all he needed. The rush of release broke forth, and for just a moment all was quiet in his mind.

He didn't make a sound save for a pause in his breathing, but his mouth faltered, and that was enough for Filch to take notice. 

"Did you come?" Filch whispered, breathing heavily. He sounded excited. He seemed to care that Severus enjoyed himself, as though he took credit for it, even when Severus was only wanking. It was annoying.

Severus frowned in irritation and let Filch's prick pop out of his mouth. "Give me your handkerchief," he said. He refrained from adding 'or else,' undecided as he was whether it would be fitting punishment to stop entirely or just wipe his hand off on Filch's trousers.

Filch reached into his pocket; Severus heard the key ring jingle reassuringly. The handkerchief was passed down in quick enough order that Severus cleaned his hand without further comment and got back to work. He went a little slower now, still tingling a little and feeling warm and satisfied as he always did for that brief bit of pleasure right after coming. He followed the faint nudge of Filch's fingers as they urged him back and forth. He sucked harder, the wet sounds smacking wickedly in the dark. Filch's breathing grew to panting, quick and dirty like a dog. His fingers pressed harder at the back of Severus's head—more, faster.

Severus took in as much as he could when Filch finally came, and he felt the first spurt of spunk slide down his throat. His lips closed tighter, greedy, and he made certain to get the rest of it on his tongue. He liked the taste, nasty though it was. Salty, slick, sort of like he had once imagined blood to be.

"Christ, boy," Filch was whispering. "Jesus Christ..."

Severus did not let him catch his breath. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, fixed his shirt and trousers with practiced efficiency, and got to his feet. Filch reached for him clumsily, pulling him close and kissing him again. Severus let him and then leaned his head on Filch's shoulder for a moment. His hand stole up and lightly plucked the fag from behind Filch's ear.

"I forgot," he whispered once the fag was stowed away. "There's a maths test on Monday. I ought to go study."

With that, he kissed Filch on the cheek and reached for the latch. It turned with a sharp click, and then Severus slipped out of the cupboard back into the narrow shafts of sunlight streaming down the corridor through the barred window, leaving Filch zipping up frantically behind him.


End file.
